The Stubborn Love Series: Books 1-5 Contemporary Romance Series

by Wendy Owens

  “How can you possibly notice that? Besides my girlfriend, you’re the only one,” Bill marvels, handing me my cup. Bill has tattooed sleeves on both arms; it is something I always take notice of while he makes my drinks. I’ve always been fascinated with body art—tattoos being a permanent fashion statement.

  I pull out the wad of bills from my pocket, even though I already know Bill is going to wave me off. “On the house,” he says.

  I couldn’t explain it to him. I had been taking free coffee from this place for as long as I could remember. And until today it was merely one of the perks of dating an owner of the building, but now, it feels dirty. I am so angry at Christian, the free coffee perk has become an unimaginable sin.

  ‘No, I insist, you always give me freebies. I think we should start a policy where I at least pay for one out of a hundred,” I joke, shoving the money further onto the counter.

  “Your money is no good here, you know that,” Bill replies lifting his hands up into the air.

  Grabbing the wadded up bills, I drop them into the tip jar and walk out, flashing a smile over my shoulder. Bill is nice; it is too bad his landlord is such a dick head.

  The walk home is the longest walk I have ever taken. I’m more than fine if it takes me the rest of the morning to get home. But, even with dragging my feet, a short fifteen minutes later, here I am, staring at the front door of my building.

  I really do love this place, the ivy has begun to climb across the brick, and I am so thrilled I convinced Colin not to cut it back. The window boxes are overflowing with the springtime flowers I recently planted. As I fiddle with the keys, small rays of sunshine filter through the leaves of the big oak tree that is bursting from the seams of the green space on the sidewalk.

  This place is home—one of the few places in my life that I feel like nobody can take away from me. Now that Christian and I live together, we can never undo the choice. He owns the building, so if anyone is going to move out, it is going to be me.

  I shake my head, trying to force the idea out of my mind. There is no way it is going to come to that, I remind myself. Even if I left for a few days, Christian will realize how miserable he is without me, and I will be back—back in his arms. And not the arms of the guy passed out in the guest room. I’ll be back with my Christian, the one I fell in love with as a teen.

  I climb the stairs and enter the apartment. Looking around, I quickly realize Christian still isn’t awake. I huff and push the wild strands of hair out of my face. I’ve waited long enough. This needs to happen.

  Stepping into the guest room, I clear my throat, loudly. Christian lay in the exact same position as the night before, clearly undisturbed by my presence. Angrily, I rush over to his oversized, beefy body and give him multiple shoves. “Wake up. You need to wake up, now!”

  “Huh,” he says with a snort, wiping the drool gathering on his cheek with the back of his hand. “What’s going on?”

  He seems startled. He lifts his eyes, and squinting, tries to block out the light more with his hand.

  “We need to talk,” I say coolly.

  I watch as he rolls his eyes and flops back down onto the bed, clearly disgusted I woke him. “Can’t this wait?” he moans.

  “It has waited, all morning,” I reply firmly.

  “Paige, I’m serious, I feel like crap.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “Jesus! I said not right now.”

  “Don’t you dare raise your voice to me,” I command, completely in shock that he would have the nerve to talk to me that way after putting me through hell last night. “For all I knew you were dead last night.”

  “I left my phone in Pete’s car,” Christian defends himself, not bothering to lift his head.

  The answer does not appease me, only further infuriating me. “Pete Hannigan? The loser you said you were never going to see again, because all he does is hang out with a bunch of roadie losers at Kings and get drunk all the time? That Pete?”

  “Yeah, that Pete!” Christian shouts, suddenly sitting up and glaring at me. I watch as he clutches his head, the sudden adjustment to his body and light obviously causing an intense pain. I’m not too ashamed to admit, I kind of feel he has it coming.

  “What’s going on with you?” I beg, fighting the urge to rush up and start shaking him wildly.

  “Nothing,” he grunts, standing and pushing past me to make his way into the bathroom. I walk into the living room, taking a seat on the chair that faces the door. He will have to look at me when he comes out. He will have to give me the answers I deserve.

  I hear the flush, then a few seconds later he emerges from the doorway. He doesn’t look at me, though. He makes his way to the kitchen sink and sticks his head under the faucet. After a good soaking, he lifts up, and while dripping water all over the floor, proceeds to question, “Where are the migraine pills?”

  “Basket on the top of the fridge,” I answer. I don’t even know why. I have all this anger and fight inside of me, but all of the sudden I feel incredibly overwhelmed with sadness. He really doesn’t care if I am upset. Perhaps I’ve been fooling myself about who he really is. As a girl I would watch my mom date these slime balls who would use her up until they were done and then throw her away. My stomach sinks as the idea I am exactly the same as her hits me.

  “It’s like a freaking jackhammer in my skull,” he moans as he fidgets with the childproof cap, growing angrier.

  I can’t explain exactly what clicks for me in that moment. I stand and glide into the kitchen casually, grabbing the bottle from his hands, and pop the lid off with ease. I deal out a dose, replace the lid, and turn to pick up my bags.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, noticing the luggage for the first time.

  “I’m leaving,” I say and make my way to the door, but before I can get there, he takes hold of my arm.

  “Where? A job?” I can see it in his eyes. He knows what is happening as much as I do, but his voice almost sounds hopeful it really is just a modeling job.

  “Yeah,” I reply. I don’t intend on taking the job in Paris, but when he asks me the question, the reply just slips out.

  “When will you be back?” he inquires, his eyes shifting from my bags and then to my face repeatedly.

  “I’m not coming back,” I answer, a sigh of relief passing my lips. This isn’t at all how I had expected the talk to go. I planned to complain and tell him how miserable I am. I would demand he change, or I would move out. But standing at the door, this isn’t the tone at all. Christian is the kind of broken that I can’t fix—he needs to fix himself.

  “What the hell do you mean?” He is clearly becoming agitated very quickly.

  “You know this has been coming for a long time. You need help, and I hope you get it, but I can’t sit here and watch you self-destruct. I love you too much for that. I can feel the rush of emotions building up, but I know this goodbye can’t be emotional, or it will scar both of us more than we can handle.

  “Are you kidding me? I party too hard with the boys, I don’t check in, and you’re done.”

  “I—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Paige. I’m sick of the drama. Get out then, if you’re leaving, just leave,” Christian snaps before turning his back to me.

  I’ve never felt two such conflicting emotions at the same time. Part of me can see he is hurting. I want to scoop him up into my arms, pull him in close, and make it better. But then there is another part of me that loud and clear is telling myself, you deserve more than your mom and dad, you deserve more than him.

  And then it happens, I says the words, “Goodbye, Christian.” The door closes behind me, my first love on one side, the rest of my life on the other.

  Chapter One

  Four Years Later ...

  I SIT IN the limo for a moment longer. The quietness consumes me. There is peace in the moment I have not experienced in days. With all of the hustle and bustle of getting ready for the wedding, the last week
has been a haze of meetings with the planner, caterer, DJ, along with countless others. I really can’t understand why little girls dream of this day their entire lives. It seems like a terrible amount of work to simply declare to the public your plan to commit to one person for the rest of your life.

  And then there is that thought. Committing to one person for the rest of your life. It never has seemed natural to me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m promiscuous or anything. I can count the number of serious relationships I’ve had on one hand. When I find a guy, I don’t mind committing, but for life?

  “Miss, would you like me to get the door for you?” the handsome, young, and slightly rounded driver asks me.

  I shake my head and quickly respond, “Oh, no, I’m fine.” Pushing all the air from my lungs, I pull the lever and push open the heavy door, stepping out of my sanctuary.

  Clementine spots me in what must be record time; I can only assume she was waiting for me. She waves her hands wildly, beckoning me. I’m not sure what I would do without her. When Emmie came to New York all those years ago, I never would have imagined that stranger I shared a taxi cab with would later become my best, and as it would seem, sometimes only, friend.

  Walking in her direction, toward the front doors of the chapel, I glance over my shoulder. Traffic is whizzing by, people are living their lives, with no clue what is happening to me on this day.

  “Will you hurry up?” Emmie yells, holding the large wooden door open. “Guests will be arriving soon, and we can’t let them see you.”

  I wonder why that is. I mean, really, if my guests see me before I walk down the aisle, will it rip a hole in the space-time continuum? Why does it matter? I lower my head, staring at my sandal-clad feet as I approach.

  “Are you all right?” Emmie asks. Leave it to her to always recognize when something is bothering me.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, the hair dresser just took way longer than expected. I guess I’m just tired,” I lie. Or maybe I’m not lying. I don’t really know what’s wrong with me. I simply feel sad. Do all brides feel this way on their wedding day? Maybe it’s something that fades as soon as you see your groom waiting for you. I’m sure that’s it. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  “She did take forever; you’re so late. What was her deal?” Emmie begins, but she doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Your dress is already in the changing room. I told your family I could help you get in it alone. I figured you preferred that.”

  There it is again, the reason I love her. You can’t actually say the words, ‘I can’t stand my family. Can you please keep that group of toxic crazies away from me?’ Emmie just knows.

  I follow Emmie quietly into the old building, marveling at the marble floors as we enter. The detailing is one of the reasons I fell in love with the chapel in the first place. Staring at the back of Emmie’s head, I notice how elegant her up-do is. Her often frizzy and somewhat out of control, dingy blonde hair has somehow been tamed into a crisp and clean sweep of petite curls. I smile, thinking of Em and Colin’s wedding.

  It was the perfect affair for the two of them. A country wedding at the hippie commune where Em’s mom lives suited them. Well, I’m not sure if it is officially a commune, but that’s what Em calls it. Emmie and Colin had the aisle for the wedding on one of the paths in the orchard, the number of guests very small, an intimate and perfect affair. Seemed like perfection to me. I wanted something just like it. I suppose I would have if my groom’s family hadn’t stepped in.

  The Grove grew on me though, as did Em’s mom. I often find myself wishing she were my own mother. My mother is the last thing I want to be thinking about right now. It took six months to even convince myself to invite her to my wedding.

  Honestly though, all I care about is the dress. When it comes down to it, they can have the rest. My life revolves around fashion these days, and it simply doesn’t seem right I release my own line and not design my wedding dress. It was a labor of love really—the massive amounts of hand-applied sheer fabrics in various shades of creams, ivories, and any other antique variation of white.

  Stepping into the small room, the first thing my eyes move to is my dress. There it is, in all its glory. The grandmother of the groom tried pressuring me to wear a long train and gaudy veil. Clearly, she did not know with whom she was up against. I was in charge of what I would be wearing down the aisle.

  Emmie is talking, but her words seem to fade into the background. I watch as my dear friend reaches up and pulls the garment I sank so many hours into preparing from the hanger with great care. She unfastens the hidden clasp on the side, just as I remove the last piece of clothing from my petite frame. I lift my arms over my head, closing my eyes. I don’t want to see the dress until it’s completely in place and revealed to me.

  “Oh Paige—” Emmie gasps.

  “What is it?” I inquire, now alarmed, spinning around to face the full-length mirror.

  “You’re stunning,” Emmie replies, staring over my shoulder at the reflection. My heart sinks—I do feel beautiful—and my hands begin to sweat.

  “Stay here, I’m going to see if they’ve begun seating,” Emmie instructs.

  “Where am I going to go?” I joke, truly reminding myself there is nowhere to go. I am here, committed to this. And damn it, I am getting married today.

  As I stare at my reflection, my mind is flooded with memories. I think of Emmie again, her happily ever after I had so envied. Unfortunately, my thoughts shift to my mother again. I lost count of her husbands and fiancés years ago. She always told me she just wasn’t lucky at love. I worry again that I am a product of her and will follow the same path of heartbreak and ruin that she did.

  I’m not sure how long I stand in that small room, looking at a woman in the mirror I barely recognize. My hair, after hours in a styling chair being straightened with a flat iron, is twisted up into a very elegant hair knot. I wanted a much more natural look, but this is nice, too, and I have far too many other things on my mind to complain.

  I pick at my fingernails, the thick coat of shellac something I’m not used to, but it doesn’t chip, so I simply rub the foreign layer on my usually unpolished nails, and accept it as a necessary inconvenience. I turn and look at the box on the floor, next to the chair, opening it carefully.

  I wanted a handmade and vintage feel throughout the entire event, and my bouquet was no exception. I peer into the white box and marvel at the beauty of the paper flowers. A fashion designer I studied under for a few months is known for creating garments from hand-stained layers of paper. Using various colors, she rolled hundreds of small squares of paper together, sculpting a bouquet that can only be described as a piece of art.

  “Hey beautiful, you ready?” I hear Colin’s voice from the doorway. Considering I haven’t seen my father since I was a little girl and none of the men my mother ever hooked up with can be considered father figures, I chose Colin to walk me down the aisle.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I reply with a smile, scooping up the paper bouquet in my hand and stepping forward to take a hold of his arm.

  The door swings open the rest of the way, and I emerge from the closet-sized room. Emmie is waiting for us at the huge entry into the sanctuary, a smile on her face stretching from ear to ear. She rushes over to me, kisses my cheek, and offers words of encouragement in an attempt to soothe my nerves. I know it is in vain—my nerves will not be tamed—it’s simply who I am.

  “I love you,” I say finally. A true and honest statement, the purest thing I can muster in that moment. We walk together, stopping just before the double doors, the light from the stained glass windows dancing across our skin. My eyes shift, and I watch a purple glimmer on my elbow. I stare as it slowly shifts down my arm, settling on my wrist.

  There on my wrist I stare at the tattoo, which reads, ‘I just might take the chance.’ Quickly, I drop my arm, not wanting the words to haunt me on this day. I glance over at Colin, hoping he didn’t catch me looking at the physic
al reminder of his brother. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  The music begins, my heart beating harder. I feel my eyes go wet, and I swallow deeply. Emmie squeezes my arm before saying, “See you at the other end.”

  I smile again; my face is starting to hurt. Faceless ushers close the doors, and Colin and I take our place for the big reveal. “It’s almost time,” he comments, looking down at me. I wonder if he can see how scared I am. “I promise, once you get down there, it’s a piece of cake. It’ll be gone before you know it, so savor every second.”

  I’m not sure how I feel about what he just said. I keep questioning myself, unsure if the way I’m feeling is normal. Does anyone really deserve to be with someone as messed up as me until death? I mean, wow, death. Doesn’t anyone else think that is a terribly long time?

  The doors open, and the noise in the sanctuary shifts as everyone stands and turns to look at me. I don’t look at any of their faces. In my head, I keep telling myself over and over again, ‘You can do this. Just keep smiling, keep smiling, keep smiling.’

  Colin takes a step forward, pulling me along. The march feels like it takes forever. I wonder how long the aisle is and come to the conclusion it must be some sort of Guinness World Record for aisle lengths. I manage to make it the entire way without making eye contact with a single guest.

  Instead, I focus my gaze at then end of the aisle. Emmie’s smile is beaming back at me, and my heart grows warm. My eyes shift to the minister. His hair is black, the black that looks fake and shiny, so you know he must have a full head of gray he’s covering up.

  At last, I allow myself to look at him, there, waiting for me. I feel my heart begin to ache when our eyes meet, a tear rolling down his cheek. His eyes glisten with an expression of pure joy. I can’t help but smile a huge, toothy grin as I take in his mess of sandy, untamed curls on top of his head. My Henry, the last thing he ever thinks about is fashion or grooming. It is always clear, though, that I am the first thing he thinks about.

  Before I know it, Colin has handed me off to my soon-to-be husband, and the minister is speaking the words that will unite us forever as husband and wife. I am reassured in those passing moments that I am, in fact, doing the right thing. This man is a creature unlike any I’ve ever known. He is wiser and kinder than I could ever hope to be, and I’m better for being with him.